


rescat

by AtoTheBean



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M, MI6 Cafe, Pre-Relationship, Resurrection Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 02:40:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14178741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtoTheBean/pseuds/AtoTheBean
Summary: The sound of the gunshot ricochets off the stone walls of the ancient dining hall until it fades to a thin, airless silence.  James can scarcely breathe against the resulting vacuum.Dammit.  Dammit!





	rescat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mistycodec](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistycodec/gifts).



> This is part two of mistycodec's and my entry for MI6 Cafe's Resurrection Challenge. It starts off right where misty's ends, so best read that first: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14161878. Thanks to her for the setup, and also for reading through this and offering comments. Hope you enjoy!

The sound of the gunshot ricochets off the stone walls of the ancient dining hall until it fades to a thin, airless silence. James can scarcely breathe against the resulting vacuum.

Dammit. _Dammit!_

He stares at the darkened screen, feeling the loss more acutely than he would have expected. He likes Q. He really does. Almost from the first wry smile Q’d offered along with his hand at National Gallery. Maybe before that, when Q’d called him old via a painting and managed to match him snark for snark. Definitely after, when his inventions proved useful and elegant in their simplicity. Certainly when he’d put his own career on the line to help James disappear to protect M… a decision for which he is now paying a more dear price than a mere “promising career”.

Bond itches to go after him. Repay the faith and professionalism Q has shown him in their brief partnership. There’s precious little to go on — stone walls and wind and a darkening sky — but James has made do with less in the past.

How the hell had he been taken, anyway? He’d vowed to stay in Q-branch until this little fiasco was over. He’d—

“You have to find him.”

“Ma’am?” James turns, incredulous, to meet M’s eyes. She’s pale, mouth a thin hard line, back the straight, unrelenting rod he’s always known the old Iron Maiden to be. “My mission — and Q’s too, for that matter — is to protect _you_.”

“This is more of a kidnapping than a mission, benevolent intent notwithstanding.”

Bond bristles. “It’s enough of a mission that Q was running ops.”

“Precisely. And now my Quartermaster’s been injured and taken. Q is in enemy hands, and with the right cocktail of drugs could unwittingly give up state secrets, assuming he’s not dead.”

James looks down at the phone. They’d seen a flash, but not the shot. And Silva was mad, but he wasn’t stupid. James really didn’t think he would kill Q when there was still a chance he could extract information out of him. “Silva is focused on you. _Obsessively_. He’s not going to take Q to some lair to extract secrets from him. He seems to have exceptional access to secrets, actually, excepting your location.” And that is a problem, too. They seem to have a human mole, along with whatever electronic version Q had unwittingly freed into the network.

M sighs and toys with the gloves she’s left on the table. “Silva is trying to get under our skins. He may even believe he has an upper hand. But this seems a rather desperate act to me. Why do this? Why kill Q?”

Why indeed? “Silva realized that Q was leaving breadcrumbs for him; he must have realized it was a trap. I don’t know why he’d take Q before the last one was set — maybe he just got impatient — but the real mystery is why wouldn’t Q just give our location? That was his job, after all: to lead Silva to us. Something must have changed. Q must have gained some intelligence that we wouldn’t have the upper hand we expected.”

Silence hangs between them. Kincade stands a bit to M’s left, watching their musings silently. If he’s shocked that a colleague of theirs was just shot as they watched on, he’s very quiet about it.

“I agree,” M says finally, with a barely noticeable sigh. “And though I fully believe Silva would kill Q just to spite me, I don’t believe that was intended as a kill shot. He needs Q alive if he’s to find me. Our Quartermaster proved more resistant to questioning than Silva expected — he may look a waif but he’s solid iron underneath. This ploy is as much a way to wear him down as it is to punish me, but it could still kill him. And we need him back to undo Silva’s damage.”

Bond grimaces at that. “You think he can?”

“More to the point, I don’t think anyone _else_ can. At least not anyone on our side. And yes, I think he can. I have as much faith in him with a computer as I have in you in the field, though both of your methods can be… unorthodox at times. This has been a blow to his ego and he’ll be keen to prove himself in rectifying it. I daresay at the end of this we’ll have the most secure network of any western government, but only if you find him, 007.”

“That could be Silva’s plan — to draw us somewhere he can defend. It could be a trap.”

“Nay, I don’ think so,” Kincade interjects, surprising them both. He nods to the phone. “This Silva of yours went a bit mad on the boy when the lad dropped the phone an’ showed more than his face. I don’ think he wants you near Q, or himself. More like he’s near enough to have an eye on the road and is flushing you out like a rabbit; getting you to show the direction you’re coming from so he can get the last step to her.” He nods at M. “He’s gamblin’ you’ll come out and show him where to go; leave her vulnerable.”

“Then I should stay where I am.”

Kincade shakes his head and answers solemnly. “The lad’ll die for sure. Did you hear the wind? He’s outside, up high, and it’ll be cold come nightfall. I’d wager he’s not far away. When the lad kicked the phone away and it tumbled down the hill... I wish I’d got a better look when tha’ happened. There’s something familiar about it.”

James turns to M raising an eyebrow, and she nods to his silent request. It would seem Kincade’s security clearance has been temporarily raised. “Actually, I’m fairly certain that Q’s rigged my phones to record video captures, even the burners. If I can find where…”

A moment later, they are forwarding through the horrifying conversation and first gunshot, freezing the frame as the phone is dropped.

“See that? Tha’ dark plant is Mountain Avens. It only grows near the tops o’ these hills. An’ there,” Kincade exclaims, pointing at a grey shape coming in and out of focus against the purple-grey of the sky. “Tha’s King’s Roost, I’d swear it. Look at the shape.”

“You’re sure?” Bond asks.

“Look it up on yer fancy phone, if ye don’ believe me. I know these moors. The lad’s in the old cairn, and like to be an addition to the archeology if ye don’ move it.”

James is already pulling up a picture of the site, and sure enough, the rock monument seems a perfect match to the odd grey shape. He hasn’t been there for years, but remembers the paths he and some local boys would take when they wanted to scare themselves with old ghost stories. It’s a perfect vantage point and something that would show on local maps and GPS… perfect for someone opportunistically trying to gain an advantage. He nods at Kincade, acknowledging the ID.

He’s already considering the best route to arrive unseen when M interrupts his thoughts. “So we really know where he is?”

“Definitely.”

“And Silva doesn’t think we do. So we have an advantage.”

“A slim one,” Bond acknowledges. “And it might not last long. He can see the roads approaching from three directions from where he is. He’ll recognize this car.”

“Take mine,” Kincade offers.

“Yours maxes out at 50 kph. If I take anything, I’ll take your motorbike, and go up the footpath on the north side. And I still don’t like leaving you defenseless,” he adds to M.

“Oi!” Kincade barks. “Yer Silva doesn’t know abou’ me. Or all the traps we’ve laid. Emma and I can defend it just fine while ye take the fight to him.”

He looks grimly at Kincade and M. It’s tempting. Very tempting. If he can kill Silva on the hill, there’s less chance of collateral damage. He looks around at the fortifications he’s prepared in his family estate, wondering if M will be safe here without him.

“Bond, just go. Keep that phone. We’ll have Kincade’s. It’s the best option if there’s any hope of saving the quartermaster and killing Silva. He’s already admitted he’s not coming here without additional information. Waiting for darkness to fall and for him to work it out will be terribly tiresome.”

James snorts a grim laugh and looks away. Every second he delays diminishes whatever chance Q may have. “Fine. I don’t have a better plan.” And duty aside, he finds he really _wants_ to get to Q before it’s too late. Surprising Silva and killing him quietly with his hands would be a bonus.

“I’ll move the car to the chapel before I go. If you’re in a spot here, you know what to do.”

“Aye, lad, I do. Now get on with it. Tha’ storm’s comin’,” Kincade says gruffly.

None of them makes a move to say goodbye or wish each other luck. When it’s over, they’ll celebrate — undoubtedly in some quiet, British way involving barrel-aged alcohol — but for now, the less said the better. He holsters two guns, catches the keys Kincade tosses him, nods, and leaves.

Bond doesn’t know where Q was shot, or how long it will take for him to bleed out, but even if M is right and Silva wants him hurt but not dead, time is of the essence. Fortunately, the cairn isn’t even five kilometers from his family estate. Unfortunately, he has to take the long way round to approach unseen. A misting rain is descending on the moors as he makes his way up the narrow trail. It offers a visual cover, while the sustained wind and occasional thunder help drown out his motor.

He feels better now that he’s in motion. Activity clears his mind. Droplets coalesce on his sunglasses and race to the edges of the frames as he speeds up the trail, but his focus is in the distance. The crest of the hill. _Q_.

Kincade’s bike is a sturdy as the old mule himself and climbs the steepening track with no more than a slight rev of the engine. Nevertheless, James stops before he crests, parking the bike in some tall heather and taking the last two hundred meters on foot, med kit from the motorbike saddlebag slung over his shoulder, Q’s custom gun out and ready. He’s not sure whether to look for signs of Silva or the towering rock he suspects Q is beneath.

He’s almost upon the blond devil before he realizes it. Fortunately, Silva is watching the road on the opposite side of the hill through binoculars, speaking into a phone. He doesn’t notice Bond’s approach as he cries, “You are not to take her. She’s mine! Just hold her there until can deliver my gift.”

Bond is in position when Silva ends the call and turns around to face down the barrel of his gun. Rather than looking alarmed, however, he looks delighted.

“Mr. Bond! You came for _niñito_? I wasn’t sure you would. I admit, he seems rather more my type than yours.” James _hates_ the lascivious grin on the man. “I’ve even considered keeping him after. With a bit of training, I imagine he could be _wonderful._ ”

Jaw clenching, Bond shoots him in the shoulder.

Silva reels back, hand flying to his shoulder and coming back bloodstained. His face twists into an ugly, malicious snarl. “So much bother for the little pet? Don’t worry, I didn’t waste _cianuro_ on him. That’s all for you and Mommy.” And with that, he lunges at Bond with something clenched in his fist.

Bond blocks it reflexively, assuming it’s a small knife when something sharp nicks his hand. He sees it fall away from the corner of his eye as he trains his gun on Silva again. “Where is he? Where’s Q?”

“He’s somewhere safe, possibly bleeding out. Such a shame. Did you know, the skin at his waist is so soft,” Silva taunts. “Have you had the opportunity to explore it, yet? Or have I denied you that privilege? You won’t save him. You won’t save Mommy — I have people going after her — and everything you love will burn to the gr—”

Silva falls backward with a bullet between the eyes.

“You talk too much,” Bond quips as he stashes his gun. He searches Silva’s pockets, claiming a gun, a phone, and a capped syringe. That’s when he notices a patch of discoloration on his hand. He searches the ground where the knife fell and sees not a blade but another syringe, this one uncapped.

“Bugger.”

He pockets Silva’s belongings, noting the absence of keys. “Q!” he calls out, heading to the stone pyre, wind whipping around him. He sees Q’s leg’s first, and then the pool of blood. By the time he clears the stone walls, he fears he’s too late. Q is beyond pale and unnaturally still, legs splayed and torso slumped against the wall.

He kneels, brushing the curls off Q’s face, relieved to see Q’s chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. “Q,” he tries again. “Q, wake up.” He pulls the blood-soaked shirt up, trying not to think of Silva’s words as he studies the wound and the bruises forming from Silva’s kicks.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” croaks a weak voice, and Bond raises his gaze to dull green eyes framed by thick lashes. Without the glasses, Bond can see they’re obscenely long.

“You’re a terrible liar, for a spy,” he retorts, looking more closely at the wound. “You’re bleeding internally.” If he can get the bullet wound wrapped it will probably be safe to move him. The entry point is far enough to Q’s side that organ damage is unlikely. “Let’s get you wrapped and get back to Skyfall. Are you strong enough to ride a motorbike?”

Q snorts and then coughs a raspy, wet breath as Bond opens the kit and pulls out gauze and tape. “Probably not,” he answers,”but we can take his car.”

“No keys,” James responds, starting the wrap.

Through a grunt, Q slowly reaches into his pocket while James coils the bandage around him tightly. Bond glances at Q’s open hand to find the missing keys. He raises an eyebrow as he ties the bandage off.

“I’m a lousy liar,” Q acknowledges, “but I’m a dab pickpocket. I wasn’t going to let him get to you and M. I was getting ready to throw them in the heather when I heard your bike approaching.”

“Why though? Why change the plan?”

“You know how he wanted to kill you? Cyanide. He was going to _record_ M dying of cyanide poisoning and taunt -6 with it and he has someone on the inside and... I need his phone.”

Q is beyond pale, blood dripping from his temple and he’s barely making sense. “We need to get back to M.”

Q shakes his head. “If we go before I fix his phone, the mole will know. They’ll send back up to our location. More than we can handle.” A coughing spasm racks Q’s thin frame, and Bond considers that Silva’s kicks might have caused more damage than his bullet. Q’s head lolls forward, and after a few labored breaths, he raises it to face James again. “I need you to trust me on this. I don’t know how much longer I can stay alert, but if we are to save M — and likely ourselves and -6 — I need to do this before I pass out.”

James — most amazingly — _does_ trust Q. He pulls the phone from it from his pocket.

Relief floods Q’s face. “I need it open. Go press his right thumb against the button. And I need my glasses.” He grunts again as James stands to follow orders.

Q is in the lee of the cairn, but Silva’s body is being pummeled by rain. It takes three tries to get the phone open, James doing his best to protect from the downpour. When it finally opens to an unfamiliar app, James races back to Q and goes looking for the glasses. He finds them three meters away amongst the rocks, bent and cracked.

“There’s a lens missing,” he says as he hands them over.

“Ta, they’re enough to be going on with,” Q answers, putting them crookedly on his face and attacking the phone. A few fingers might be broken, but both thumbs are fine, and though Q’s movements are not his usual graceful efficiency, he seems to make progress, turning off several settings and then switching back to the unfamiliar app.

“If the mole doesn’t hear from Silva and sees the phone move, there are orders to kill M in a less personal way than the original plan.”

“And you know this how?” Bond asks, watching Q’s movements become slower and more deliberate, his head shake and his eyes blink to clear his vision. How he’s managing to concentrate with this amount of blood loss is astounding.

“The man would not stop soliloquizing the entire drive up,” Q answers, closing out of the app, leaning his head back against the wall, and closing his eyes. James is worried he’s passed out when Q adds. “I know his whole plan. He was worse than a cartoon villain.”

“Do you know who the mole is?”

Q’s face twists and he shakes his head.

“Q? Where were you taken?”

“Q-branch”

“Then how—”

“The mole. Bond _._ ” He shakes his head again. He looks pale and damaged and terribly fragile against the grey, unforgiving stone. “I don’t want to have to kill her.”

“ _Her?_ Who?’

Q looks away, and Bond is about to press him for more when a large _boom_ sounds in the distance. Not thunder. James cranes his neck to the west and sees a tower of billowing smoke.

“M,” he murmurs.

“Let me see,” Q orders. He’s struggling to rise, voice harder than James has ever heard it.

It’s time to go, anyway. James pick’s Q up off the ground bridal style against only modest protests and carries him out of walls of the cairn. When he can see the horizon, Q comments, “It’s a car. See how black the smoke is?”

That doesn’t offer much hope, but James will take what he can get.

James carries Q to the car and settles him into the passenger seat. strapping him in. He peels off his own soaked jacket before taking the wheel, wishing he had something dry to drape over Q. Instead, he turns the heat on full blast and hopes Silva hasn’t somehow boobytrapped that as well. He heads down the hill, hoping he’ll be in time to keep M from harm.

“Do you have your phone?” Q asks quietly.

James hands Q the burner, confident he’ll know the code. Speeding expertly down the road, he hears Q’s call connect.

“Tanner? It’s Q,” he says with a shaky voice. “Yes. Yes, I’m aware I’ve been missing and it’s a bloody mess. Is Eve there? No! Don’t say anything to her. Listen to me.” There’s a slight pause before Q takes a deep breath and says, “Take her into custody. Take everyone she’s talked to today into custody. I have a program running on the system that should separate the wheat from the chaff. In the meantime, get a medical evac to the coordinates I’ll text you in a moment. At least one gunshot wound, and — what’s wrong with your hand?” That last is directed to Bond.

The discoloration is spreading, and it feels numb. “Cyanide, I presume. I was clipped by a syringe, but he wasn’t able to depress the plunger. It’s a small dose and localized.”

James has never heard such profanity fall from the quartermaster’s posh lips.

“And cyanide damage to a hand,” he adds. “Do it quietly, Bill; a direct line to someone you trust from this phone. I’m still not sure how deep this runs or how many systems she may be monitoring. Get her under control.” There’s another pause. “No, but we will be soon. She’s not unprotected, but I don’t know her status. Bond or I will call you back when we do.”

Q hangs up and sends the coordinates then leans his forehead against the passenger door window. James is already thinking two miles ahead to M and Kincade, hoping they’re still alive.

“So. Eve,” he says quietly as he turns onto the main road.

“So it would seem,” Q acknowledges. “Silva thought I was asleep and called in. It was her voice.”

“Motive?”

“No idea, but she had ample opportunity. If I’m wrong, no one will be more pleased than I,” Q comments bleakly.

James doesn’t think Q’s wrong. He doesn’t have all the motives worked out, either, but now that he thinks on it, he’s noticed Eve conveniently located in key moments over the last few weeks. Conveniently close to the man threatening to push M out. Having M out of the way could leave Eve in a tidy spot with the new director.

He glances over at Q’s pale, pained face. He wonders if he’s witnessing Q’s first betrayal. He's always considered Q to be impossibly young, but something about the way he’s carrying himself makes Bond suspect that this is not his first time. Something else they have in common, it would seem.

“Rest,” he tells Q. And for once, the boffin seems to take heed.

Turning into Skyfall, James is relieved to see the black car by the chapel — most certainly _not_ burning — and a strange car smoldering in the drive, wheel captured in what appeared to be a _bear trap._ Kincade had apparently made additions to their defenses once Bond had left. There are signs of a fight at the house as well, but James takes the chance of checking the chapel first.

He enters to find M sitting in one of the pews, clutching her arm, and Kincade training a shotgun on him before lowering it quickly.

“Status?” he asks, crossing to M.

“One dead in the car on th’ lane, one down in the house, probably dead. A third in the tunnel, definitely dead,” Kincade summarizes grimly. “All the traps you laid worked perfectly. Emma took a ricocheted bullet in the arm when we were in the tunnel, but I didn’t want to leave her alone to get the medkit.”

“It’s fine,” she asserts. “Barely a scratch.”

“And you?” he asks Kincade after checking that M’s arm is indeed a mere flesh wound.

“Oi, I’m fine, lad. This lot… it was more like hunting weasels than bears. They didn’t even trip all the traps you laid.”

“What about Q?” M interjects.

“I got him. He’s in the car, rough, but alive. He’s called Tanner for medical extraction.”

“And Silva?” she asks quietly.

“I put a bullet between his eyes. And it was _far_ too quick and painless,” he adds, holding his hand up to show M the damage. She understands immediately, face blanching. “Fortunately, we can exact more revenge on his mole.”

M steels herself. “And who’s that?”

James sighs. “Moneypenny.”

Her face falls. He knows the answer hurts Q and M more than it hurts him. The woman has already shot him off a train. He’s not particularly close to her.

Rotor blades sound overhead, and the next several minutes are busy with checking identification, directing medical attention to M, contacting Tanner to exchange updates, and helping load Q’s unconscious form into a stretcher on the hopter.

The medical team is now in the chapel with M, having already sorted Bond with an inhaler and two injections, and Q with braces on his fingers, a reset and bandaged shoulder, and an IV to help counter the blood loss. James is sitting in the hopter watching Q’s color slowly return with the IV fluids when those ridiculously long lashes flutter open.

“Bond?”

“I’m here,” he says, shifting into Q’s field of vision. “You’re in a medical helicopter. They say you’re going to be fine, though you’ll have to avoid typing while your fingers heal.”

Q grimaces. “And you?”

Bond raises his hand to show Q the affected area. “I’ve been given the antidotes and feeling’s already coming back. I’ll be a pain in your arse for many years to come, I’m afraid.”

Q breathes out a sigh of relief. “And M?”

“Being treated for a minor injury, and hopping mad about Eve. Who’s in custody, by the way.”

“Tanner needs her phone. And Silva’s. There was a team they had on hand who could be called in and make a strike that would look like the IRA — completely destabilize decades of peace. If you can give me his phone I can—”

“Q. I’ll tell Tanner, but I don’t see anyone clearing you for work right now. Rest. M’s thrilled we’re all alive and Silva’s not. We can chase down the rest later.”

Q nods and relaxes back into the stretcher. After another quiet moment he adds, “Thank you for coming after me.”

James smiles. “Thank you for giving me something to work with. You did it on purpose, didn’t you? Kick the phone away so we’d see a landmark?”

Q hums. “It was a delicate balance, trying to give you something without getting myself killed.” He raises his right hand, bandaged as it is, and James suddenly recalls the moment when they met and Q had similarly held out his hand for Bond to shake. The first time they’d touched. The beginning.

It feels a bit like a beginning again. A rebuilding, anyway. And it’s nice to know whom he can trust, and who trusts him. James clasps Q’s wrist, not wanting to put pressure on Q’s broken fingers, and feels a gentle squeeze around his own wrist in return.

“Quartermaster,” he says with a tilt of his head, acknowledging the title and the team they’ve become. “Best get some rest. We have work to do when we return.”

“007. James,” he says with a final press of his fingers before letting his hand drop to the stretcher. “We’ll keep her safe, yet.”

James doesn’t know if Q means M or Britain, but it hardly matters. The statement has a weight of truth either way.


End file.
